Films

Day in day out, for fourteen years Zazie and I analysed each other. In a word, it was not a casual affair; our relationship was intimate but placid. One might say we served time and each other meaningfully, not indifferently. She would often come to me to discuss relationship problems, psychosomatic anxieties, fits of panic, passionate and frustrating friendships, parallel existences, the dreams of lovers, archetypical associations related to her ancestors. At other times, in an excellent mood, she'd be talkative, tenderly observe my wander over her eternal good mood, that friendly and tail-wagging attitude that was basic to her nature.

Now and then Zazie would ask me to talk about other things in our sessions, such as the effects of lent and festive cycles or astrology. She talked so much to me that once, to redress the balance she rightly sensed had been wrecked, she began to put questions to me: ‘So what was the first love like? Like snogging Irén Dombi in 1964? What did Big Fatso have to say about it?' Naturally my squeamish nature made me pooh-pooh the idea, suddenly my mind went blank, I bit my lips and went shamefully mute. In the end, again it was Zazie's wisdom that resolved the problem, bringing an end to a tense situation that lasted many months. In the middle of an evening session she drew my attention—or rather, made a subtle hint—to Doctor Ferenczi.

I recall we were playing bridge and drinking Chianti when she lowered her glasses, gave me an innocent look and shyly but casually asked, ‘Have you read the Diary?' ‘What diary?' I said in a rather matter-of-fact tone, assuming an attempt to divert my attention, or a bad hand. ‘I mean Ferenczi's Clinical Diary .' ‘Ugh, er,' I choked, depth psychology being a taboo, one that we would never casually discuss in the company of others. Never chitchat offhandedly. And yet what an amazingly mysterious coincidence! For Ferenczi had recently written Groddeck one of his Zelma Letters which I'd heard about via some informal channel, probably while drinking wine after a pig-killing. ‘I'll check it out,' I replied sheepishly, trying to divert our bridge partners' attention from the topic. Shortly afterwards Zazie went off to London for a few weeks to visit relatives, and in my misery over her absence I dialled Ferenczi's number. After much deliberation he suggested I should try mutual analysis; having made, of course, adequate preparations, given the tenderness and devotion (a satisfactory blend of samurai loyalty and Budapest hysteria). And so, after Zazie returned, I asked Simon whether he'd be prepared to film the subject - if Zazie would be willing cooperate - with her consent. He was very eager to help.

That's it really. Although Zazie and I carried on for months, she only agreed to screen this excerpt. To be honest, I don't really understand why this particular one, but there we go! Otherwise, unfortunately not even Zazie's premature death (too many cigars!) will allow for this immensely valuable and voluminous film material to be brought to public in the next 75 years—in accordance with what would be Zazie's last wish.